Blowback (7 page)

A soft hiss
as the elevator doors slid open to the seventh floor. Vanessa nodded at the fit, middle-aged woman waiting for her in the hall. Hildy B., the DDO's secretary, renowned for her brightly patterned dresses as well as her crack organizational skills.

“They're waiting for you,” Hildy said crisply.

Prompting Vanessa to check her watch: 0903.

The CCTV footage . . .

Damn.
She made a rule of arriving at least five minutes early to any meeting—but on this of all days, she had managed to run three minutes late.

The DDO was leaning casually against his executive desk, a flag from 9/11 framed on the wall behind him. “Glad you could join us.”

A heavyset man, silver-haired, in a tailored slate suit filled one of two matching dark leather armchairs. Vanessa recognized Allen Jeffreys, Deputy National Security Adviser, an extremely conservative member of the former vice president's inner circle. At the moment, he was busy speaking quietly into one of the DDO's three office phones. It wasn't unheard of for him to be sitting in on an Agency debrief concerning Iran's nuclear facilities, but it was unusual.

Chris and the others were seated around the conference table, laptops humming, folders open. Chris said nothing, motioning for Vanessa to join them.

Vanessa dropped her file and notebook on the table in front of the only empty chair. Greeting her colleagues, she took stock: Zoe to Chris's immediate left; continuing clockwise, the ever-rumpled Sid, a fiftysomething almost-annuity guy; and then a thin, ferrety-looking man, one of a sprinkling of CPD specialists on WMDs: biological, chemical, nuclear, pick your poison. Harris. The Agency operated on a first-name basis, claiming a sense of egalitarianism (Vanessa found it bogus) as well as security issues (valid on the security point).

A striking, dark-eyed woman sat to Chris's right. Vanessa recognized her as an analyst/targeteer in WINPAC, in the DI, the Directorate of Intelligence.

“You two know each other?” Chris asked, gazing over his silver-framed glasses. “Vanessa, Layla—we've enticed Layla to make a move to CPD.”

Vanessa remembered; Iranian American, smart, a hotshot, and on a steep upward professional trajectory the opposite of Vanessa's current free fall. CPD had no doubt poached her from the DI.

“Welcome, Layla,” Vanessa said, as she opened her notebook.

“Thanks, Vanessa,” Layla said, neatly. “Following up on your summary cable, and the intel from XYTree/213, I was just beginning to update everyone on Baluchestan Province.” She clicked a laptop key, and Vanessa realized the Iran analyst had already begun a PowerPoint presentation. A series of satellite images filled a large, wall-mounted flat-screen monitor, one of three. As far as Vanessa could decipher, the images depicted open, desolate land crisscrossed by barely visible trails.

Allen Jeffreys cupped his palm over the phone long enough to say, “I remember talk a few months ago about a ‘road to nowhere' near the border close to Afghanistan and Pakistan. Could that be the secret site we're trying to pinpoint?”

Another click and the images shifted—doubling, then quadrupling.

“We are always tracking anything that might indicate traffic in unusual, remote locations,” Layla said, her voice clear and distinct. “But, unfortunately, there are many, many possibilities in Baluchestan—as you can see.”

Using the track pad, Layla changed the scene yet again, this time pulling back from the images, a vertigo sensation, as the world opened up to reveal the breathtaking scale of Iran's no-man's-land.

There was an audible intake of breath in the room. Even though they were all familiar with Iran's geography, the visual was undeniably effective.

It was Harris who asked the question on everyone's mind: “How the hell will we find it?”

“We won't,” Vanessa answered. “Not without the geo-markers.”

The door to the DDO's office opened, and Hildy B. stuck her head inside. “We've got a link with the UK.”

And just then a second flat-screen flickered. A larger-than-life-sized image of a woman filled the screen, her mouth moving, and, after a few moments, her voice became audible. “Hello, Phillip.”

The DDO smiled. “Alexandra, glad you could join us.”

Alexandra Hall, officially known as C, Director of Britain's MI5. A woman with a reputation as brilliant, ruthless, politically powerful, and lethal to terrorists. Vanessa and Hall had crossed paths briefly about a year earlier when Vanessa helped bring down two specialists in Bhoot's black-market procurement network.

This had turned into a morning filled with surprises.

Vanessa was struck again by the fact that public images failed to capture Hall's intensity. She studied her now, seeing a woman in her early fifties, still strikingly attractive, even dressed as she was, in a plain gray jacket, no jewelry, and without any visible makeup. But what struck Vanessa most acutely was Hall's piercingly intelligent gaze.

Allen Jeffreys spoke up now, his tone quite cool. “Madame Director.”

“Mr. Jeffreys.”

“Congratulations on your latest legislative victory. I would love to move a similar bill through our own congress, widening our powers to examine financial data—”

“We're not there yet,” Hall replied tersely. “Just one step closer.”

Addressing Hall, the DDO said, “Shall I introduce you around—”

“Not necessary.” Without masking her impatience, Hall shook her head. “We've been getting your PowerPoint, and I know Chris. Go on, and I'll jump in with questions if I have them.”

“I have a question,” Jeffreys interjected sharply. “We're here to discuss a previously unknown, underground nuclear weapons facility located in southeastern Iran. If your intel is valid, if the Iranians are back in business on the UD3 project to develop a nuclear trigger, there is no question this indicates Iran has nuclear weapons capabilities.” His lips compressed as he stared at the DDO. “This
is
what you have and what you believe, right?”

DDO Hawkins hesitated, and when he did begin to speak, he barely avoided stumbling over his words. “If the intel is valid—and that's a big if. But then, yes, Iran may be in possession of a nuclear weapon.”

Jeffreys nodded. “What is the probability of success in militarily wiping out multiple facilities in Iran?”

Obviously taken aback, the DDO hesitated again, and almost immediately Hall spoke up on-screen. “Before we waste too much energy debating options, military or otherwise, let's see if this facility actually exists and is not the imaginative manipulations of an asset eager to please.”

Vanessa recoiled internally—they could assume nothing until they had corroboration, and she had no desire to feed into Jeffreys's neocon redline arguments, but Arash had given his life to get intel out of Iran.

“He was my asset,” she said sharply, “and he always delivered quality intel. And if his latest intel is accurate, we have a chance, a target date in two weeks, to capture Bhoot. But only if this operation becomes our team priority, twenty-four-seven, from now until September thirtieth.”

Hall's eyebrows arched. “Thank you for the urgent reminder, Ms.—”

“Vanessa.”

“That's right—Vanessa.” Hall nodded. “Blond becomes you more than brunette. Phillip, if your case officer is correct and this intel is actionable, we are working within very tight time constraints. Two weeks to set up a
cooperative
operation to capture Bhoot.” Hall's eyebrows rose beyond their natural arch. “What are the odds of getting these missing geo-coordinates in any reasonable time frame?”

Chris turned to Zoe. “What's your take?”

But before Zoe could respond, Vanessa interjected: “That makes it all the more vital to get Tree/214 out of Iran alive. Because then we will have the coordinates in a matter of hours.”

“You can't be certain—” Zoe protested.

A shrill ring filled the room.

More than one person started.

The DDO answered his green secure phone. For less than thirty seconds he listened, then with a nod and a terse, “Thank you,” hung up.

He addressed the group. “The Poles got word, Tree/214 is on the move. She's requesting safe passage from Iran, and when she's out, she will
only
talk to ‘Ms. Dalton.'”

For a second there was dead silence. Then slowly, all eyes turned toward Vanessa.

Chris said, “How fast can you get on our plane to Incirlik, Turkey?”

Already pushing out of her chair, Vanessa grabbed her folder and moved toward the door.

Zari moaned sharply
as the ancient Mercedes shuddered over something hard on the road. She clutched at her mother with the fierceness of a baby bird clutching to its nest.

“Eshgeh man,”
Yassi murmured, desperately trying to sooth her child as they lay pressed together inside the stifling blackness of the trunk. How long until they were free of Tehran? Could she keep Zari from panicking again before they were safe to leave this filthy, cramped prison?

She'd carried her daughter the last few meters across the street to the elaborate gates of the Polish embassy. What if the soldiers had refused to let them in? She barely managed to recite the code the American had given them so long ago.

A new cloud of fumes filled the trunk, and Yassi retched, barely holding back the sickness. She braced for the next wave of nausea, pushing her mind's eye to the turquoise-and-silver beaches of Kish Island last February, the foamy lick of sea around their sun-browned ankles . . .

She bit down hard on her lip—she couldn't allow these thoughts of her husband,
not now
. Her fingers found her belly and the bundle tied at her waist—for this, Arash had risked everything.

The Mercedes braked abruptly, and Yassi and Zari rolled hard against bare metal.

“Mama!” Zari hissed, fear making her small voice shrill.

“Hush.”
Yassi pressed her forefinger lightly to her daughter's lip, felt the quivering of fear and fatigue.

Voices so close!

Zari squirmed as her mother kept her grip.

One voice belonging to their driver—

Yassi barely breathed through fear.
Keep still, little one,
she silently prayed.

The other voice snapping out a sharp command—
a Sepah, a Guard?

Yassi felt her body lighten to nothing, as if every bit of substance drained away.

A harsh barking noise—

Zari jerked in Yassi's arms.

Laughter! Their driver and the other man bantering!
And now the driver saying something about getting into trouble . . . the wife waiting . . . and his father-in-law's car!

Yassi held her breath as if to still the tremors running through her child.

Finally, the car inched forward, settling into the blind seesaw motion. But now the trunk felt safe, and the blood began to flow through Yassi again. She even felt her daughter's little body ease a bit in her arms.

Only two things mattered—get Arash's message out of Iran and stay alive.

For the briefest instant, Yassi allowed herself to picture her husband's face.

Somehow we will make it without you—I will not let them take anything else from us.

Aboard the C-17
the hard plastic netting pinched Vanessa's spine, and, even with earplugs, the roar of the engines made her head ache. A familiar experience reaching back to the best of her childhood as an Air Force brat: trips to Europe, Greece, the Middle East; the journey to the new and unknown. But today she shifted restlessly in the nylon jump seat. Real seats were hard to come by, and she'd given hers to a harried mother who was traveling with three young children and an infant.

Not even two hours ago she'd watched the asphalt landing strip at Andrews Air Force Base disappear as the hulking Globemaster III military transport lurched airborne. She'd been told to hitch a ride, as the CIA Gulfstream was otherwise occupied. The flight to Turkey, a straight shot, would take approximately eleven hours. Once she hit the ground, she needed to be alert and ready to face Arash Farah's widow.

She'd taken Ambien, and still her eyes stayed wide open and her mind refused to shut down. How soon would Yassi and her daughter reach the border?

She had a good idea what they would endure—hours hidden in the trunk of a car until they were well outside Tehran; at least then they could ride
inside
the car, crossing the border if their fake papers held up to scrutiny, and then another day of driving rough roads through remote and barren sections of Turkey.

•   •   •

Vanessa blinked
in the half-light of dawn. The few windows on the C-17 were portholes, but she could feel the plane begin its descent. She closed her eyes, letting her mind fill in the landscape—a patchwork of green and brown, myriad villages and towns scattered to the rolling arid hills, and the steep mountains in the distance.

A year ago she'd visited Turkey secretly with Khoury; the trip through small villages around Cappadocia had been a journey five hundred years back through time. The underground cities and “fairy” chimneys were magical, and so remote, there was almost no chance the forbidden lovers would encounter someone they knew. They picnicked and wandered through the village markets bargaining for trinkets, Vanessa thumbing through her dog-eared Turkish phrase book while Khoury, amused, refused to bail her out.

For those days, their lives together had been more than just a collection of stolen moments.

The C-17 touched down. Vanessa, a connoisseur of landings, judged it rough, fast, and well done. Navy pilots—used to the limited landing space on carriers—always put down hard.

A man stood waiting at the bottom of the stairs. As Vanessa stepped from shadow, blinking and slightly dazed, into full morning sun, she caught her first glance of his familiar, pushed-together features. Chuck Hamm, Chief of Station Ankara.

The COS nodded once. “See you're still packing light.”

Six years ago at the Farm, Hamm, a smart, sober ops officer with a soft drawl and fifteen years' field experience, taught Vanessa to jump out of airplanes in the paramilitary course. He seemed to tolerate her, always pushing her to take it to the next level—even when they butted heads over her tendency to push the envelope and fly solo. Hamm was that rare breed of ops instructor who made Vanessa want to prove herself, and he quickly earned her respect; no surprise he'd risen to COS of such a serious posting.

“What's the latest?” she asked, following him to a black, four-wheel-drive Suburban.

“They crossed the border about two hours ago.”

“Thank God.” She tossed her small duffel in back and then claimed the passenger seat.

“It will take them another ten, maybe twelve, hours if they're lucky,” the COS said brusquely.

Vanessa knew Hamm was fully briefed on Vienna and the exfil operation; the assassination of an asset and the extraction of his family from behind hostile borders didn't happen every day.

“What you need to remember,” Hamm said, breaking into her thoughts, “we're a team at my station, and I keep a close eye on my people.” He turned the key, and the Surburban's engine thrummed to life. “I'm in charge but can't protect you if I get any surprises.”

•   •   •

He drove across base quickly,
over dirt roads, past dusty shops, and finally past dormitories, where naked lightbulbs glowed faintly in daylight and Turkish palms offered slivers of shade.

He braked in front of 21B, a cinder-block prefab—one of about thirty—painted a color that was almost Pepto pink. Vanessa winced; nothing she'd lived in on any Air Force base growing up had been this disheartening.

Inside, the few bits of furniture were worn and the walls dirty white except where a brave occupant had painted the kitchen blue.

The COS crossed his arms. “Make yourself at home.”

She took a quick inventory and found the cupboards mostly bare. “I'll need to get some basics,” she said. “Food. Chocolate. Juice. Coffee. Tea and a teapot. Oh, and a good bottle of Bourbon.”

“Sure,” Hamm said, his slow drawl heavy now. “Why don't we throw in a Jacuzzi while we're at it?”